


The Royal and the Tyrant

by subversiveasset



Category: Mario Story | Paper Mario, Super Mario & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-30
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:07:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26727937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subversiveasset/pseuds/subversiveasset
Summary: After years of repeated invasion attempts, The Tyrant has finally seized The Royal's castle and dispatched her royal guard. But is the royal a princess in distress, or does she have more agency than meets the eye?(This work is canon-inspired, but alternate universe. It will try to take various Mario universe concepts and make them more "thoughtfully" considered.)
Relationships: Koopa | Bowser & Peach-hime | Peach Toadstool
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	The Royal and the Tyrant

“The tyrant has gone too far, crone,” the royal said. She clasped her hands in front of herself -- one silk gloved hand shackling the other wrist -- but although the royal was now a prisoner of the tyrant, the only shackles upon her were those self-imposed by the discipline of years of royal upbringing. A noble woman must always carry herself with poise and grace, including when held captive by enemy forces, and so the royal spoke softly, admitting no trace of discomfort with her situation.

The crone had caught the royal sneaking through the castle, where the royal had found the tyrant’s diary and had been reading his most private thoughts, searching for plans, strategies, clues, hints -- anything with which she might launch a clandestine counteroffensive. If the crone knew what she had been doing, such an act would make the royal an enemy combatant and forfeit her rights as a political prisoner of war (if the tyrant even pretended to be subject to international law.) By all rights, as the tyrant’s advisor, the crone could do anything with the captive royal.

But instead, the crone said, not unkindly: “Too far? You have seen His Lordship. He is ecstatic. More pleased than he has been in years. No harm will come to you as long as you play your part.”

The crone crinkled her beak into something of a smile.

The royal looked askance at the diary, but redirected her eyes to the crone. Had the crone missed that the royal had found the diary?

“How have we fallen so far?” the royal asked. “You were once my wetnurse, and you and the vizier raised all of us when we were young, since before the division of our lands. You know this isn’t right…”

The crone fussed at the brim of her wide sorceress hat, tilting it out of her sight.

“You always wanted the reunion of the kingdoms, and this will bring it,” the crone commented.

The royal could not doubt it. Now that she had read the tyrant’s innermost thoughts in the booklet just a few feet away -- a booklet written in the angry script of a man consumed with with inner doubts and outward envies, a booklet imbued with the same inner fire that the royal had seen the tyrant scorch his opponents with -- she knew that the tyrant’s repeated attempts at coups and invasions were designed to one end...to return back to the memory of their shared childhood.

But it was a memory that could never truly be revisited.

“It’s not right,” the royal whispered. “You know…” she winced, expecting the crone’s disapproving response. “he isn’t fit to rule. I do appreciate that he is now in a rising spell, but how long will it last before he falls again? And what damage will he cause in his delusions of grandeur?”

The crone clicked a forked tongue against her chelonian beak. “Never speak of His Lordship’s wishes as delusions anymore, for I have won for him the star wand, able to grant His Lordship infinite power.”

...this explained why the tyrant had so easily defeated her princess guard and seized the castle, at least.

The crone continued, “There will be no more falling spells from now on, as long as you and the other play your part. His Lordship wishes to wed and then you will be the queen of a combined land.”

The crone waddled toward the royal, and reached out to touch the royal’s gloved hand with her own aged scaly claw. How many years had the crone aged from managing the affairs of the tyrant? How many of the creases on her face were like tree rings, telling the passage of an endless cycle of rising and falling spells, of the life of a tyrant whose mood was as mercurial as the weather?

Many would be terrified of the crone’s coldblooded, clammy touch. She relished in that terror response, in hearing the hushed whispers about her as a demonic magician. But the royal felt the emotional warmth from a relationship that had lasted throughout her entire life. The crone spoke as a grandmother speaking about a loved, yet wayward child, “Ma petite pêche, please...we know His Lordship can sometimes...reject reason...during his rising spells, but we think he can be...tempered...by your grace. Please, allow me to prepare you for the ball.”

~ ~ ~

After seeming hours of cleaning and primping, the royal had resolved herself to face her old former friend, the tyrant. The crone led the royal into the glittering ballroom, where dozens of chelonian guards stood at attention around the room. Intermingled were a lesser number of the royal’s own weary, still bruised myconic guards. She looked among the room, seeing that chelonian and myconic alike bore a wistful hope that tonight’s dance would symbolically announce the end of hostilities. Yet, the attitudes and energies were diametrically opposed -- the chelonians appeared triumphant, gloating, while the royal’s own myconic guardsmen were doing their best to create the facade of a united kingdom under duress. They knew -- she knew -- that a poor performance in front of the tyrant would result in further harm to themselves and their families. They all looked forward stoically, but the royal caught a few glimpses at her of myconics hopeful that their sovereign would save them and the realm.

...so she would play her part as well for the sake of her people.

In the middle of the ballroom was the tyrant himself. To his enemies, he was a monster of jaundiced, rigid scales and offwhite claws and fangs more often than not stained pink with blood.

But the royal instead noticed his mane of crimson hair that reminded her of the most regal lions, matching piercing red irises, red that when juxtaposed with his vibrant green shell reminded her of Christmastime.

The crone reached out to push the royal forward, but she stepped forward of her own accord. The room was silent but for her heels clicking on the ground as she strode toward the tyrant.

All eyes were upon them, everyone wondering if she would continue to play her part. If she would accept the rise of a new kingdom or stain her pink dress red in futile, deadly resistance.

The tyrant reached out a claw for her in his own grace. He had washed out any blood that might have stained it and bleached it white. The royal reached back for him, but continued moving closer than the outstretched hand.

She reached up, caressing the scales of his cheek, and the tyrant and the room let out a staccato shudder (his of anticipation, the others of anxiety.) She was close enough to feel his breath, fiery -- not the flames of battle that always burned within him, but the pleasant heat of a cinnamon capsaicin freshened breath.

This was the man she had known as a friend and hoped to be a co-sovereign, before the cycle of treachery had begun so many years ago. This was a man who wasn’t taking spoils, but seemed to be making an effort (however misguided) at rapprochement.

She pierced the silence with a question, “Old friend, shall we dance?”

**Author's Note:**

> (Listen to the companion cover and read the follow-on story “Princess in Distress” from Paper Mario on my YouTube channel: https://youtu.be/XPkvE7qnoWc )


End file.
